


Red Right Hand: A Homelander x Reader Story

by annie000expatriated



Category: The Boys (TV 2019)
Genre: Beating, Bondage, Cuckolding, F/M, Humiliation, Interrogation, Kidnapping, Master/Pet, Rape/Non-con Elements, Torture, Whipping
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-10
Updated: 2021-02-22
Packaged: 2021-03-15 22:48:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29321913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annie000expatriated/pseuds/annie000expatriated
Summary: Billy Butcher, Season 1, Episode 1: I'm offering you the opportunity to get them that got your girl.Billy Butcher did his homework on Hughie and then recruited him to plant a bug in Vought Tower. Unfortunately Translucent found the tiny device. The rest, as they say, is history.Doing your homework on someone and convincing them to help in the fight? Butcher was adept at it.There's no way Hughie was the first. Who else did he recruit before the two of them met?And...remember Becca? There's no way she was the first one either. Or the last.
Relationships: The Homelander | John/Original Female Character(s), The Homelander | John/You
Comments: 26
Kudos: 38





	1. Chapter 1: You'll see him in your nightmares, you'll see him in your dreams

_Musical inspiration for this story is "Red Right Hand" by Nick Cave and The Bad Seeds. Check it out[here!](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RrxePKps87k)_

You look down at your hands. They are calloused, pale, and smell heavily of the onion you just chopped on the cutting board. You blink the sting out of your eyes. You reach for a fresh green pepper and begin to dice that as well. 

You feel its firm skin against your damp fingertips, still cold from the refrigerator. You have already defrosted the peas and thrown away the colorful packaging they came in. It was bright green and white, labeled “sweet peas” in big block letters with the smiling face of Homelander beside them.

You place onions, peppers, cheese, diced ham, peas, and all of the other ingredients in their individual bowls before combining them into a ham and cheese casserole. It saves time in the long run to have everything measured and prepared before you begin a meal, whether you are making it here at home or working at the upscale restaurant downtown where you’ve been employed for almost seven years now. 

The oven creaks as you open it. Heat wafts out onto your freshly-scrubbed face. You changed out of your work clothes and had a short shower when you got home. The white chef’s uniform needed a wash, and you were more comfortable in yoga pants. Above them, you wear a modest purple sports bra and a loose pink t-shirt, tied in the front. You have put on fuzzy, comfortable pink house slippers. Your long, straight hair is swept up into a ponytail and tied with a bright pink scrunchie. You can hear the sound of your dryer in the next room down the hallway.

You turn around, your back to the oven. You stretch your arms above your head as you yawn. Your feet ache from standing in a crowded kitchen all day and your shoulders are sore. 

Your eyes scan the cream-and-tan, faux marble surface of your kitchen countertops and the island in the middle. Working in a restaurant has trained you over the years to always look at your workspace and determine if it requires a wipe-down. 

You had the early shift today, not the dinner one, so you will be free to spend the evening with your husband Shane. You can hear the faint plastic click-clack of a computer keyboard in your shared office space not far down the hallway, and then his fingers drumming loudly upon the surface of his desk. You keep hearing a creaking sound, as though he can’t quite sit still in his chair.

Your ears pick up a slow, haunting song coming from Shane’s computer. He has just turned the volume up. You realize that you heard the same tune playing before you started making dinner, so your husband must have it set to play on a loop. At the beginning of the song is the sound effect of a match being struck.

Your brow furrows. _That’s a bit unusual for him. Same song, over and over._ You think. You normally heard him listening to a hard rock playlist. Or to the soundtrack from one of those Super action movies. But he had stopped watching those recently, and his face looked a bit troubled when you mentioned them.

Everything is in order this warm, late afternoon. The sun shines through the kitchen window above the sink, long rays falling to the cream-colored linoleum floor. The white and yellow farmhouse-style curtain is half-open. The cupboards that line the walls at eye-level and the cabinets beneath are all painted with stain to resemble polished cherry wood, with tiny round knobs the color of weathered bronze. There is track lighting on the underside of the cupboards, illuminating the off-white faux-marble countertop that serves as your space for food preparation. 

You hear footsteps at your left. You turn towards Shane and smile. You reach up to wrap your arms around him and kiss his lips. You can taste the coffee he was drinking and feel his strong hands press against your back. 

He returns your embrace. His body feels tense. 

Shane has the hard muscles of a soldier. He has kept in shape since coming home from Afghanistan to stay seven years ago and shedding his Army uniform for a Vought Security one. He occasionally joked that he had to look intimidating, but the job itself required nothing more physically taxing than operating the x-ray machine at the airport. He never allowed you to visit him at work, though. He said it was against the company policy. 

His broad chest is your favorite pillow. You rest your head on it for a moment. He is wearing an old black t-shirt, faded jeans, and sneakers. He showered when he got home and changed out of his Vought Security work uniform.

You take a step back from him and study his face. He is giving you a small smile, but he has a deep crease where his black eyebrows meet and his expression looks troubled. 

You meet his eyes. You draw in a deep breath, and find that it comes out as a sigh. You never quite want to state the obvious to him, and you never feel like you need to. A three-bedroom house in the suburbs of New York was normally beyond the financial reach of a security guard and the chef at a chain restaurant, both just a bit past thirty. No matter how hard they worked. 

Fifty years ago this would have been common, but not today. Impossible without the inheritance from Shane’s uncle. No matter how hard you tried to budget, both of you worked variable hours and the expenses were piling up.

“All week you’ve had this look like you’re carrying around a boulder, you know. If it’s about money, just tell me. I know that the mortgage is--”

Shane gives you a vehement shake of his head and runs his left hand through his hair. His black mane is trimmed very close to the scalp on all sides, thicker and swept back at the top of his head. He shaves every morning but this late in the day you can see a five-o-clock shadow. His slightly-tan face has a pronounced nose that some have commented looks Italian, but his descent is as varied as your own. As it is with most Americans. His chiseled face is lined with worry.

“Not that, no. We’re fine. It’s just something at work. Don’t worry about it honey. What are you making?” 

His words sound hollow but you don’t press the point. _Maybe this is about the war._ You think. _He still gets those nightmares. Wish I could help him…_

His expression is still distracted when you sit down to dinner. Afterwards, you are loading the dishwasher when you see him out the kitchen window. He is sitting in a white vinyl and aluminum deck chair on your small back porch, talking on his cell phone. 

It is barely past sunset and the air is still warm and fresh outside. You slide the window open so that there is only a screen between you and Shane. 

The scent of freshly-mown grass makes you smile, though it also reminds you that your own lawn is overdue for a cut. You asked Shane to do it. He said he would, but that was at least three days ago. You finish loading the dinner plates and add Translucent Dishwashing Detergent to the machine, then turn the knob to start the wash cycle. 

You catch a whiff of burgers and hot dogs on the neighbor’s grill nearby. Your own Homelander Barbeque Grill is on the back porch right beside Shane, safely tucked under a black waterproof protector when not in use.

Shane’s voice reaches you through the open window. His back is to you. He is staring out over the backyard at the last light of a fading day, and talking to someone on the black device in his hand. His cell phone has a durable black rubber protector. Yours has a pearlescent pink case.

“I did it.” Shane says. “Underside of the desk, the bug should be able to pick up everything the next time...well, you know, next time. What? No, I won’t. You just let me know when you nail the Red Right Hand.”

He pockets his cell phone and leans back in his chair. You try to ask him about it before bed but he tells you it’s nothing to worry about. Shane begins to kiss your neck and holds you close. You nestle together beneath your thick down blanket and warm cream-colored sheets. 

The two of you normally sleep on your sides, spooning comfortably. Tonight is no different. Yet you feel as though he is holding you tighter than usual. Like a drowning man clinging to a rope. He drifts off to sleep before you do and you can hear his soft snore. You relax in his arms.

You hear glass breaking, and then a loud thud. The room fills with smoke or gas; something thick is in the air. You draw in a single breath and it has a sour chemical taste. You gag.

Your limbs feel heavy. Your eyes shut. Your mind falls into darkness.

  
  


***

The world spins around you. You awaken in stages, fighting your way towards consciousness. Your eyes see only blurry patches for a while until they clear. 

Your surroundings resolve into an irregular pattern of harsh light and shadow, cast by fluorescent fixtures high above you. You are facing a thin pillar made of gray concrete that stretches from the floor to the steel catwalk far over your head. The space around you is vast enough to echo. The air smells like old dust, with a rusted tang.

You feel a slick cement floor beneath your bare feet. The air chills your naked skin. All of your clothes are gone.

Panic grips your heart and you gasp out loud. You can smell your own fearful sweat.

You are on your feet. You are facing a concrete pillar. Your wrists are tied together above your head with synthetic white rope, and then tied to some kind of metal ring that is bolted to the pillar in front of you. 

Your body feels chilled with exposure. Whoever tied you here also took your clothing. Of the pajamas you wore to bed, not a stitch remains.

To your left you see a series of tall, wide windows made of many small glass squares. They look out only on darkness, and distant city lights. The interior wall of this warehouse is painted a soft, faded yellow with dark green closer to the floor. You aren’t sure if this used to be a warehouse, factory, or meat processing plant.

At your right, you hear Shane cough a few times. Your head snaps towards the sound. 

A scream dies in your throat. For a moment you feel every cell in your body vibrate with terror. 

Shane sits beside you, on your right side. He is in a sturdy metal chair only a few arm-lengths away from you. He, too, is tied in place. His wrists are bound to the arms of the chair, his ankles to the legs. The same thick synthetic rope that was used to bind you also encircles his waist and chest. He is still wearing the white t-shirt and boxers he wore to bed.

His head hangs down. You cannot see his face, only his mussed mane of straight, thick black hair. You see it sway back and forth, as though he were on a ship during a storm and trying in vain to right himself. Mumbling escapes his lips. You can’t make out the words.

“Shane!” You hiss the word through clenched teeth. You repeat your husband’s name, over and over again. 

Slowly, inch by inch, he raises his head to look at you.

His tongue lolls. His eyes begin to focus. They still have a glazed quality, as though he has been drugged. You see him begin to close his mouth.

No doubt you were drugged as well, you think. That’s the only explanation for almost falling asleep in your own bed, tasting some strange gas...and then waking up naked and bound with rope to a metal ring bolted to a concrete pillar. You feel hazy but your mind is beginning to clear. Your fingers and toes feel numb. You flex your hands above your head, testing the ropes that hold you fast. Your mouth is dry. Fear is like ice in your chest and you feel your bladder clench, as though it might release.

Shane’s eyes focus on you. He draws in a lungful of air and shouts out your name. Beneath his thin white t-shirt you can see his chest heaving. His eyes are wide.

His head snaps to the left. Whatever startles him and causes him to grind his teeth, it is too far behind you to be in your field of vision. 

Shane turns his head back towards you. His voice falls to a whisper. Still, it echoes in this vast chamber of concrete and rusted metal.

“Oh...honey.” Shane breathes. His eyes begin to brim with tears but he does not shed them. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Please forgive me. I’m sorry.” His lips become a hard, thin line. 

You hear footsteps on concrete. They are far behind you yet drawing closer. Each step is louder than the one before it.

“I’m so sorry sweetheart.” Shane’s voice trembles and you see him thrashing against his restraints in vain. The checkered boxers he wore to bed leave most of his legs exposed, and you can see those well-muscled legs shaking. 

“I’m sorry. He’s not what he seems. He’s a god, he’s a man…”

You shut your eyes and shake your head, trying to clear it. “Shane, what is...I mean, what did you do?”

You hear a man’s deep baritone echoing off the concrete walls all around you. “Why don’t you tell her, you mindless little grunt?”

He steps in front of you. Your eyes leave Shane and take in the blonde man who just spoke.

_Homelander._

How could you fail to recognize the face that you have seen on innumerable television screens over the years, and on countless products? Even if that face wasn’t framed by broad shoulders crowned with golden eagle emblems, and the familiar dark navy blue Supe suit? 

The muscles in his jaw are clenched, as though there is a mighty rage within him but he is holding it back for now. His face is clean-shaven and classically handsome. His golden blonde hair is combed back. Not a strand is out of place. 

He stands less than an arm's length from you. You see Homelander raise one red-gloved fist. You feel your whole body begin to tremble. In the chair on your right you hear Shane stifle a gasp but you aren't looking at him. Homelander, Shane, and you are all staring at the object the blonde Supe is holding up.

It's a long, brown braided leather bullwhip. The sort of whip that cowboys once used on cattle. It shines a bit in the fluorescent light above as though it has just been oiled and cleaned...and now, you think, he is ready to use it. You hear the squeak of his stiff leather glove as he clenches it tight.

Homelander holds it coiled in his red right hand.


	2. Chapter 2: He'll appear out of nowhere but he ain't what he seems

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Billy. No last name. That's all Shane knows.

****

**Chapter 2: He'll appear out of nowhere but he ain't what he seems**

Homelander reaches out with the coiled leather and strokes the underside of your naked breast with it, then your belly. You feel the firm, supple material against your skin. Every muscle in your body tenses. Your knees feel like rubber.

He looks down at you as though from a great height. His eyes bore into your own. They are an icy shade of blue. His deep voice bounces off of the concrete and steel.

“Your husband made me _very_ angry, girl. It's too late for either one of you to escape what you have coming.”

You hear Shane’s voice off to your right. He makes a pleading sound, but Homelander interrupts him. Still not breaking eye contact with you.

“But…” He draws in a single breath and the corners of his lips form a tiny smile. “I have a whole table of things like this over there, behind you. You can’t see it. Your husband can.”

The lights above are irregular and partially obscured by the metal catwalk. Homelander stands before you with one golden eagle at his shoulder well-illuminated, the other less so. The angle of the light accentuates the Super muscles of his stomach and chest. Each one casts a distinct shadow. The gold thread that trims the red collar of his Supe suit catches the light.

Still stroking your skin with the coiled whip, he reaches out with his left hand and pinches your nipple between two gloved fingers. Pain shoots up through your body. You squeal aloud. 

“He _might_ be able to persuade me to go back to the table and pick up something else. If he tells me right now...why the fuck he put a bug in my office.”

You hear metal scraping against concrete as Shane struggles in his chair. Your husband’s words pour forth in a rush.

“Goddamn it, _yes!_ I’ll tell you. You don’t have to hurt her. I’m not working for another company. I’m not a spy. This journalist said he knew what you really were and he needed my help to prove it. Met him in a bar outside of Vought Tower.”

Homelander stops teasing your curves with the whip and steps a pace back from you. You hear his boots on the concrete as he walks around to stand behind you. The white and red stripes of his cape fan out as he moves. 

You can’t turn your head far enough to see what he is doing. But you hear the soft sound of leather falling onto cement. It’s enough to tell you that the whip has been uncoiled, and no doubt he is preparing to swing it.

You fix your eyes on Shane. You can smell his fearful sweat. Shane’s voice rises in pitch. His words are frantic. “He said his name was Billy but I didn't ask if that was real. I could tell that he used to be a soldier. SAS, he said. British Special Forces. Bearded man in a black coat, that’s all I got! You think he’s gonna show his driver’s license to some Vought merc?”

You hear a swish, and then a mighty crack. You scream aloud. 

Your heart pounds in your ears for what feels like a full minute before you realize that he didn’t actually strike you. He cracked it in the air and the sound was terrifying, but your naked back is intact. 

You hear a dull clattering noise behind you, as though things are being shifted about on a flimsy wooden table. 

Homelander’s voice takes on a smoother tone. “Well, you didn’t lie. So I’ll get something else from the table. But you have to give me more details. Because I’m going to use it, and I won’t stop using it until you give me enough.”

The Supe steps back in front of you. The pillar you are tied to is thin enough that if he stands slightly to the side, it is not in his way if he reaches out to grab or strike you. Every part of your naked body is available to him.

You stare at the object in his hand. It is about twenty-four inches long, and made of some kind of clear polycarbonate. His red-gloved fist is wrapped around the ridged surface of the handle, which is made of black vinyl. It resembles the sort of rattan cane used in furniture, about 3/8ths of an inch around. If it were transparent and perfectly straight. 

He holds it in front of your face as though he is menacing his dog with a stick. “I’ll hold back with you, believe me. Not because I can’t make you bleed. I can do whatever the fuck I want. It’s because, you see...I’m not in a hurry. There’s nowhere I’d rather be than right here, listening to your husband explain why he planted a bug in my fucking office. And I think _this_ is the motivation he needs, don’t you?”

You hear the rustle and swish of his cape and in a moment he is behind you again. You can hear the cane cut through the air.

The dense rod strikes the back of your thighs. You can feel it dig into your skin, and then a sensation like fire as the impacted nerves spring back into place. A sharp flurry of blows follows it, thighs to bottom and back again. You struggle to form words but only mangled syllables escape your lips.

It’s not a bullwhip, you think. You can tell that your skin isn’t being broken. But each cut of the synthetic cane feels like a bee sting and he’s given you at least a dozen already, with no signs of slowing down.

“Homelander. Sir.” Shane gasps. “I told you all I know. Billy. Journalist. British guy with black hair. He told me that he could expose…” Your husband’s voice breaks.

The Supe pauses. 

Shane visibly struggles to finish the sentence. He grinds his teeth.

Homelander raises the long, thin rod high in the air and brings it down hard, like a captain flogging one of his sailors. It hits you once, twice--six blows on the swell of your bottom and a final one on the sensitive spot where it meets your thighs. 

The words pour out of your husband in a rush. “God dammit, I know what you are, but I'm a _man.”_ His jaw is clenched and there are beads of sweat on his forehead.

Homelander’s cane has stopped for the moment. You struggle to catch your breath.

“I'm not some worker bee or robot drone.” Shane’s voice shakes. “You think I can just watch you do what you’ve been doing, and not feel anything? It's the same...month after month with you. I remember their names you know. Do _you_ remember? I don't see what you do but I don't have to. You open the door all charming and they walk in all trusting, and then they come out a mess hours later and it's a thousand yard stare in their face. Just like my buddies back in Afghanistan would get...”

Shane looks away from the both of you now, and down at the dusty concrete floor. “If they try to make a scene then Stillwell calls on guys like me. I gotta escort them to the lawyer’s office where the suits make them sign a goddamn NDA! Sometimes it’s...NDA, and then a Vought doctor! But not until they sign. I can _hear_ things you know. Security men, we're not supposed to feel anything about it? I'm not steel, I'm not stone. For God’s sake Homelander. They're people. People just like my wife.”

Homelander steps in front of Shane and bends forward a bit, to tower over your bound husband and glare down into his eyes. His cape faces you. Stars at his shoulders, stripes down his back.

You hear the Supe’s soft chuckle. “Just like your wife? Maybe. But not her. Not until you decided to plant a bug in my office. Now it will be. And it's because of _you.”_

The picture becomes clear in your mind. You hang your head low, your straight hair falling in your face. Your thighs and buttocks are ablaze with raw pain where he struck you. Your skin hasn’t been broken but you can feel where there will be red welts for a while. 

You imagine a long string of women like yourself, the only difference being that they made the mistake of trusting a Super icon instead of breathing in some knockout gas. _And maybe he didn’t whip them in his office._ You think.

Your husband saw Homelander for what he was, and the guilt ate him up inside. Then a stranger recruited him to plant a bug, in hopes of blowing the whistle on this monster. But the monster found out.

Homelander makes a tsk-tsk sound, waving one red-gloved finger in the air in front of Shane’s face. “So...this mysterious ‘Billy the Journalist’ gave you the bug, and you planted it. You betrayed me because you felt sorry for some of my fucking pieces, and that’s really all you know?”

He rises to his full height and faces you. His chest is puffed out, his hands on his hips right below the golden eagle belt. Some of the anger has drained away from his face and his smile looks almost playful. As though he has solved the puzzle.

His eyes meet yours and he winks. You see that the clear synthetic cane is still gripped in his right hand. “Your husband really _is_ a mindless grunt, isn’t he?”

Homelander resumes his place behind you and raises the cane. He brings it down over and over again, striking the swell of your bottom. First from slightly to one side of you, and then from the other side. The sound of your pleas and shrieks echoes off the walls.

You recognize Shane’s voice through the reverberations and focus on him. His dark brown eyes lock with yours. His thick black hair is plastered to his forehead and scalp by sweat. You shut your eyes tight each time Homelander canes you, then open them to focus on your husband. 

You have lost count of the blows. Your thighs and buttocks are ablaze. You feel tears running down your cheeks. 

“Honey, look at me.” Shane’s voice is low and deep. “Just breathe. This is no different from when I was over there fighting. We've fallen into enemy hands and we’re being interrogated. I've told him all I know. He's got to be able to see that.”

“Dammit, grunt, don't try to talk to her. You're talking to _me.”_

The next cut of Homelander’s cane falls harder than any of the ones before it. You scream aloud and thrash against the rope that binds your wrists. He reinforces the point with a dozen more strikes on your thighs. 

You can hear Shane babbling apologies and straining against his ropes. He repeats the same story, with the same few details, over and over. _Billy. British journalist. Former soldier. No last name._

At last, the beating stops. Your breath comes in shallow pants. You are hiccuping and shaking, leaning hard against the pillar in front of you. You have strained against the ropes that bind you to the metal ring above your head, but they have not budged.

You hear the wooden echo of Homelander putting something upon that table behind you, or taking something from it. You look over your right shoulder and see him behind you, with nothing in his hands. Those hands are now bare. He has removed his blood-red gloves. 

“You know how I found the bug?” He tosses the words at Shane as he steps towards you.

“I could _smell_ you.” Homelander continues. “There was no reason for a security drone like you to leave a handprint of nervous sweat on the bottom of my desk, unless he was up to no good. Followed the scent to find the bug. Then I just walked down the hallway and matched the sweat to the right merc. All I had to do was look up your address in our employee files and pay you a visit. You're pathetic.”

Homelander closes the gap between you. His body presses against yours from behind. He wraps one arm around you at the waist and reaches down between your legs. The other hand encircles your right breast and squeezes. 

His fingers are digging in hard enough to bruise. The weight of him presses against all of the skin that he just tenderized with the cane. The wiry material of his navy blue Supe suit feels like a scouring pad against your welts, scraping at your already-punished body.

He is grinding against you. His clothes are still in place but you can feel his erection pressing between your buttocks through his tight pants. That, and the rest of his body, feels as hard as marble or steel. If it were coated with a thin layer of living flesh, and then fabric.

His teeth dig into your neck. You throw back your head and scream out your pain. The sound echoes off of the ceiling of the old warehouse. 

His bare hand parts the folds between your legs. You feel his hot breath on your cheek. You hear him give a small, triumphant laugh. 

“Well! All I did was punish you a little, and now look at you. You’re drenched down there.”

His right hand rises to your face, smelling of your own private juices. He slides his fingers in your mouth and orders you to lick them clean.

You trace his fingers with your tongue. Your taste is like vinegar and sweat. A tear of shame falls down your cheek. 

Homelander glances over at Shane and grins. “Bet you didn’t know that about her, did you? She needs a real man.”

He withdraws his hand from your mouth and continues to grope your body. His hips grind against yours from behind. 

His breath is hot against your ear. “That stupid mercenary you married doesn’t know anything useful. But he still betrayed me. He owes me. You’re mine now. You _were_ his wife. Now you’re my dog. The only way my dog ever leaves this warehouse is with my collar on. But you have to ask me for it.”

Your head spins. Your voice cracks. “Ask you...for your collar, Sir?”

His left hand stops roaming your curves and slides into your hair. He grips the back of your head at the scalp and pulls it backwards, exposing your throat. His right hand encircles your neck and squeezes--not hard enough to cut off your air, but enough to make you shiver and imagine that he will. 

“I haven't decided what I'm going to do with the two of you yet.” Homelander sighs. “Do I make you my pet just for tonight, then let you both go? Do I let _him_ go and keep _you_ chained up in Vought Tower until I get tired of you and throw you down from the top of it? Onto the ground, where you belong. Do I just leave you both here, in this warehouse…”

An electric hum pierces the night. He isn’t facing you but the media has already taught you the sound of Homelander’s laser eyes, and what they can do. You hear yourself whimper aloud. He grinds his erection against you.

“But, _in pieces?”_

You draw in a deep breath and turn your head towards him, looking over your right shoulder. “Sir, I understand. My husband offended you and you want to punish us. Please don’t...I mean…”

You squeeze your eyes shut. You feel the blood rushing to your face but you press on. _“Please just fuck me,_ as hard as you like Sir, then let us walk out of here afterwards. You know we’ll never cause any trouble for you after this. How could we? We’d be too terrified.”

Homelander laughs and shakes his head. “Sure, but you also won’t cause any more trouble for me if I just leave you both where you are and burn the warehouse to the ground. You’re not making a very good case for yourself. If you want to do that, you have to beg me for my collar like a good little puppy.”

You bite your lip. “Please give me your collar, Sir.”

He sighs. “No, I’m just not feeling it yet. You have to _earn_ your collar, girl.”

Homelander steps a pace back from you. You gasp in relief. The pressure of his body against the marks of your caning is gone, at least. He was rubbing them raw. Your neck throbs where he bit you but he didn’t break the skin.

You feel a tugging at the ropes that bind your wrists together, and to the ring bolted into the pillar in front of you. You look up and see that he is untying them.

Your arms feel like pins and needles when you lower them. You are unsteady on your bare, chilly feet. 

Homelander doesn’t lift you up in his arms, but he wraps them around you and guides you to lean your weight against him. You feel his striped cape brush your naked skin. 

He turns you around, allowing you a view of what was behind you for the first time. There is a row of concrete pillars identical to the one you were facing. Beside the next one, you see a mattress laying on the floor. 

It is only a king-sized mattress, not a bed, but it looks clean and new. There are fresh-looking white sheets upon it, and four pillows in white pillowcases. It has been made up. The sheets are tucked in beneath a dark blue fleece blanket. 

Next to the pillar after that one, you see an old wooden card table piled high with objects. You can’t identify all of them. Your eyes have time to register a few things made of steel, some leather belts, a Taser, coiled white synthetic rope, and the bullwhip he was wielding earlier. It lays beside the clear synthetic cane that he beat you with.

One step at a time, on shaking legs, he guides you over to the mattress and motions for you to lay down upon it. Your thighs and buttocks ache so much that you lay on your belly without thinking about it. Your whole body sags into the fabric and springs. You melt against the soft blue fleece. 

You look to your left. Homelander walks behind Shane and pushes his chair a few feet so that your husband is still beside you, still in a position to see everything but just out of arm’s length. You hear the steel legs of the chair scrape the bare concrete floor. Shane’s dark brown eyes are reddened. They lock with yours. You see his lips forming silent words, over and over again. _I’m sorry. I’m sorry honey. I’m sorry._

You nod at Shane and try to focus on just breathing through what is coming. You felt Homelander’s erection straining against you before you were untied. He obviously caned you not only to punish and interrogate your husband, but because it was so exciting for him. 

Now, you think, he is going to mount you from behind and it will eventually be over. _There’s still a chance._ You think, and try to somehow communicate the words to Shane with only your eyes. _He feels betrayed, he gets revenge, and he still might let us go before the sun comes up._

You hear Homelander’s boots behind you.

Then you hear them turn, and his footsteps move in another direction. Towards the battered wooden card table. 

Your eyes follow him. Your heart is in your throat. A soft whimper escapes your lips. 

His flag cape is facing you. You hear the clatter of something on the table. Something heavy.

Homelander turns back around. The toes of his red boots are only a pace from the edge of the mattress. They are not far from your face. 

Both of his arms are extended straight out. He has the bullwhip in one bare fist and an open steel collar in the other one.

“It's one or the other.” He looks down at you and smiles, showing perfect white teeth. “Based on how much respect you show me. Right now.”

Your whole body shudders. You crawl on your elbows, belly-down, face to the floor. You take his right boot in your hands and then press your lips against it. “Please.” You gasp. “Please give me your collar, Sir.”

Your backside throbs with pain. You feel it with every heartbeat. 

You look up to see that he has lowered his arms to his sides. You take this as encouragement and throw yourself into this display of devotion, pressing your palms to the floor and lavishing his left boot with kisses, then his right again. “Please Sir, please give me the collar instead…”

Homelander steps one pace backwards. “No.” He sighs. “Not good enough.”

His right hand raises the bullwhip high…

And brings it down on your back.

You scream aloud. You feel a diagonal stripe of blazing agony that reaches from your left shoulder to just above your right hip. The pain is like a flash of lighting behind your eyes. You are stretched out half-on the mattress, half off of it. You thrash against it and burst into tears. 

You can feel a trickle of blood from your single whip mark. You were facedown on the ground instead of standing, so the whip wasn’t able to wrap around you and some of its force was absorbed by the concrete instead of your flesh.

It doesn’t feel like the old pictures you have seen of furrows in a beaten back that are deep enough to lay a finger in. It feels more like a long, shallow injury. Like when you used to fall and scrape your knee as a kid, except it is more like a cut than a scrape. _It might not scar._ You think. _But if I wasn’t marked up before, I sure am now… I’m bleeding, oh my God...I can’t take another, please no..._

You hear a loud _clang_ near your head, steel against concrete. Your eyes snap towards it. 

He dropped the collar in his left hand, letting it fall to the floor. 

His right hand raises the bullwhip again.

You feel adrenaline surging through your veins. You drag yourself towards it on your elbows and grab the collar in pale, sweaty, white-knuckled hands. 

You rise to your knees in front of Homelander and lift the collar high, as though you are presenting a crown to a king. You hang your head low. Your hair falls in your face.

“Sir.” You gasp. “I humbly beg you to put this on me, Sir.”

Homelander remains motionless in front of you for a long moment. The whip is raised but he doesn’t bring it down. Tension hangs in the air. Shane, at your left, says nothing but you can hear his ragged breathing.

He drops the whip. You hear it fall to the floor. He takes the collar from your hands.

Your shoulders sag with relief. Shane lets out a long breath at your side but your eyes are fixed on the steel band that Homelander holds in both hands. He is bringing it towards you. 

He leans forward and lifts your hair out of the way. You feel a thick, heavy band of steel encircling your throat, padded with leather. You hear some kind of lock click into place.

The words pour forth from your lips. Your whole body is trembling. “Thank you, Master. Thank you Sir.”

Homelander throws his head back and laughs. He begins to stroke your hair as though he is petting a dog. 

He locks eyes with Shane and you see a triumphant smile on the Supe’s face. “Hear that? I didn’t tell my pet here to call me Master. Like the sound of it though. I’m your wife’s Master now, and she is my puppy. You put a ring on it? Well, I put a _collar_ on it. I win.” He gives a soft chuckle. “How does _that_ feel, grunt?”

You feel another wave of tears sting the back of your eyes but your instincts spur you forward. You can still feel blood trickling from the stripe on your back. 

You take Homelander’s right hand, the whip hand, and begin to kiss it.

You lose yourself in the act. In peppering the back of his hand with tiny kisses, in cupping his palm between two of your hands and planting a kiss on each finger. “Thank you for your collar Master. Please no more...with the whip. Please. I will be good Sir.”

You press his open hand against your cheek and gaze up at him as though you are looking upon a god. He meets your eyes again.

“I don’t know...I think it’s good for you. It made my puppy lick her Master’s hand, now didn’t it? Well, I’ll give you something better.” His fingers trace the line of a tear and rub against the salty dampness. His smile reminds you of a satisfied cat.

Homelander drops his hand from your face and unclasps his golden eagle belt. With practiced ease he lowers his navy blue tights and red underwear just enough to allow his erection to spring free. It is on par with Shane’s in size and girth, you think. Not obviously different than any other to your eyes. Only made of hardier material, of Superhuman flesh instead of average human. And, of course, used with more brutality.

He slaps it against your tear-stained cheek hard enough to sting. You see him locking eyes with Shane as he guides it between your lips. His thick, musky smell fills your nose. You open your mouth wide and prepare to take him deep. You swirl your tongue around the underside of the head, in a move that often made Shane’s knees go weak. 

The Supe rewards your effort with a small gasp of pleasure. His eyes are fixed on your husband. His expression is triumphant, gloating. He thrusts hard at the back of your throat. 

Homelander grips your collar in his strong right hand.


	3. Chapter 3: You’ll see him in your head, on the TV screen, hey buddy I’m warning you to turn it off

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How long will you be here, in this warehouse?

**Chapter 3: You’ll see him in your head, on the TV screen, hey buddy I’m warning you to turn it off**

You feel Homelander’s right hand on your collar. His left hand strokes the top of your head as you suck him. His strong fingers toy with your long hair. The blonde hairs at the base of his shaft tickle your chin.

You look up from where you kneel to see his blue eyes aimed slightly to your left, at Shane in his chair. You feel the head of his cock press the back of your throat. He pulls back, and pumps into your mouth again. You feel him swell against your tongue. 

You bring your hands up to stroke his thighs and stomach, worshipping the defined muscles beneath his navy blue Supe suit with its textured pattern of eagles. It feels wiry and dense beneath your fingertips, like modern chain mail.

“Your wife looks so good on her knees.” He chuckles. “You know, I’ve always found that if I don’t make them bleed a little, they just aren’t enthusiastic enough about this. The whip does wonders. _You_ can’t even imagine.” 

You look up at Homelander to see his eyes fixed on Shane. He stops using his hands to guide your oral attention and lays them to rest on your shoulders. “Does she ever do this for you?”

Shane’s voice sounds carefully neutral, but it has a ragged edge. “Yes Sir. She does, Sir.”

“I bet she’s never this eager with you. She probably only does this if you wash the dishes and rub her feet, right?”

Homelander’s bullwhip left a single stripe on your back, reaching from your left shoulder to your right hip. As he talks, he begins to press against the top of your mark with his fingers. A whimper escapes your throat. Your backside and thighs throb. You can feel the blood from your whip mark drying against your skin.

“You should have kept doing those dishes and kept your head down. You should have known better than to step out of line. You forgot your place in the world. You’re like Icarus. You tried to fly too high and I had to burn your wings. Now your wife gets to decide if you go home to wash those dishes again...or whether I burn up the rest of you.”

You hear the electric sound of Homelander’s red eyes lighting up. Your whole body shivers and you suppress a scream.

You focus all of your attention on the one thing you _can_ control. You grab his buttocks with both hands and rigorously deepthroat him, pounding away against your own gag reflex. His musky, masculine scent fills your nose. The taste of him saturates your senses.

The sound fades away. Tears of relief sting your eyes.

Homelander’s laugh echoes through the warehouse. “Oh yeah, that’s my good puppy. Better get every drop, I--”

His words give way to a deep animal grunt. The muscles of his backside clench beneath your hands. He begins to pulse against your tongue. The salty taste of his fluids makes you gag but you drink it all down. You go to work cleaning him as he softens in your mouth. He pushes you backwards, onto the mattress on the floor.

The pressure of the fleece blanket against your welted bottom makes you yelp aloud. You roll onto your belly and crane your neck to look up at Homelander. The dark blue blanket feels warm against your naked breasts and stomach. Your punished backside faces up, towards the ceiling of the warehouse. 

At your left, in his chair beside the mattress, Shane's head is hanging low. You see sweat drip from the tip of his nose. The thick black hair at the top of his head is a mess from thrashing about, but for now he is almost motionless. 

Homelander is standing tall in front of you, adjusting his tights and clipping his crown-like golden eagle belt back in place. 

He looks at you for a long moment. Then at Shane, and back again. You can see his eyes roaming over the marks of his cane and whip on your skin.

Homelander turns about and begins to walk back towards the card table that was behind him, no more than a few paces away. The sight of this makes your blood feel like ice. The red and white stripes of his cape catch the light when it fans out. It makes him look even more enormous, like a bird extending his brightest feathers in an intimidating display.

He turns back to face you. You stare at the objects in his right hand. You see nothing except a squat jar with a printed label, of the sort used for prescription medicine. There is something else tucked under his arm but all you see is black rubber.

He smiles down at you. His voice is smoother now, relaxed in tone. “It’s okay. You’ve had enough discipline for now. I can’t have my dog getting sick, now can I?”

He kneels beside you on the mattress. He is to your right, you notice, so that his body doesn’t obscure Shane’s view of you from the left. You hear a plastic lid being unscrewed. The medical scent of antiseptic hits your nose. 

You feel a gentle pressure against the bottom of the long stripe on your back. The substance on his fingertips feels cool and a bit greasy, but the sensation is soothing. He applies the salve where you were whipped, saying that it is to keep the mark from getting infected. 

Homelander uses both hands to rub the soothing cream deep into the flesh of your bottom and thighs where he caned you. Your skin is tender and you whimper a little, but he is being surprisingly gentle. He even arranges your body so that one of the pillows is under your head. You fold your arms beneath that pillow, as though for a massage at a day spa. You feel too exhausted to do anything else, even to think about why he would treat you with kindness.

You melt into the fleece blanket and mattress beneath. Your muscles relax. Your eyes fall shut. He takes his time with every inch of punished skin. His fingers trace your welts, both treating the pain and admiring his own handiwork. 

“You’re being a very good dog for me. But all you did was slobber a little. You haven’t shown me _all_ of your tricks yet, have you? I can’t let you go just for that. You’re staying here for a while."

Homelander’s fingers, slick with the salve, probe into your anus. You clench and squirm against the intrusion.

“Open up, puppy. I’m going to use you here eventually, and this is to prepare you for it. You’ll be grateful for that later.”

You feel something circle the ring of your sphincter. It is about as wide as three fingers bunched together and has an artificial texture. He pushes it inward. You gasp aloud and bite down on the pillow beneath your face. Your muscles tense and your body trembles. You feel it slide into place as though it were contoured for this purpose.

“There. Suits you perfectly.”

You look back over your shoulder. A plug has been inserted into you, with a silicone tail that sticks out from it. The tail is black, textured to resemble fur, and curved up towards your back. It is not long. It reminds you a bit of the top of a question mark.

Homelander’s fingers venture downward, to where your thighs meet. You feel a steady, circling pressure on the folds between your legs. He finds your clit and grinds his strong fingertips against it.

Your hips buck even as a whimper of shame escapes your lips. You squeeze your eyes shut. 

His right hand still rubbing you, Homelander presses his left hand against the small of your back to keep you in place. His palm feels warm, and impossibly strong. 

“This is your treat, dog. And you’d better look into your husband's eyes right now. You don't get to look away. I forbid it.”

Your face snaps towards Shane. You meet his gaze. His countenance is haggard, with dark circles beneath his deep brown eyes. The white t-shirt that he wore to bed is soaked with sweat. 

Homelander increases his pace. “That grunt has to see you come for me. Don't hold back, unless you want me to go get my cane again.”

The thought spurs you to push your hips towards him, to ride his hand. You relax the muscles below your waist. Your breathing quickens.

Fire builds in your core. You can feel your own wetness against your thighs. Your lips move in a whisper before you can stop them. You feel your left hand leave its place beneath your pillow. Your fingers reach out towards Shane.

"I'm sorry." You whisper. “Sorry, I--” 

“What did I say about talking? My dog _never_ talks to him in front of me.” The Super hand at the small of your back lifts up, and then comes crashing down hard on the outside of your left thigh. 

You yelp aloud. He slapped a place on your skin the cane wasn’t able to reach, you realize. Probably to avoid smearing the medicine he just applied. 

Homelander’s blows are more than hard enough to leave a handprint. He continues to strike you there, bare hand against reddening flesh. You endure at least a dozen slaps before he finally stops.

His pace back and forth across your clit becomes frenzied. Your toes curl and your hips shake. Your climax rips through you. You feel your body clenching against the intrusion of the plug, but it stays in place. You release a sound somewhere between a scream and a sob. You keep your eyes focused on Shane’s.

Soon, Homelander rises to his feet. Your eyes drift shut at last. Silent tears are running down your face and your breath is ragged from exhaustion. 

You hear steel chains rattling around on the card table. You struggle to lift your head towards the Supe standing beside it, his back to you.

He turns about to face you where you lie, still facedown on the mattress. The gathered loops of metal links in his hand look like stainless steel, no different from what you might see sold at a hardware store or used to lock a bicycle to a rack. He closes the gap between you and fastens one end of this chain to the steel collar around your neck. 

Homelander is arranging the other end of the chain around a pillar nearby, but your focus is on the metal band encircling your throat. Your fingers explore the shape of it for the first time. Close to where your collar fastens shut below your chin, there is a small half-circle of metal. The attachment point for the chain. The chain is held to the collar by what feels like a small but very sturdy padlock. You feel padded leather against the skin of your neck.

“She’s mine now until I decide I’m finished. And it’s not yet.” Your eyes snap to your left.

Homelander is standing between you and Shane now, bending slightly forward to lean over your husband. The Supe’s broad-shouldered back is facing you. You can see the triangle of white stars against navy blue at his shoulders, with red and white stripes down his back. His red boots are at your eye level.

From your angle facedown on the mattress, Shane is obscured by both Homelander’s broad-shouldered body and his cape. You can only hear the Supe’s deep baritone, not see either man’s face. 

“My bitch on the floor behind me? She doesn’t get a choice. But you do. I'm going to untie you from this chair. And then you can get up and walk right out of here. The doors aren't locked. There’s a highway nearby. I won't stop you. I’ll just take her home with me for a week...and at the end of that week, I’ll fly somewhere in the middle of the Atlantic and drop her in it. You'll have to get a new wife but it will feel good to sleep in your own bed again.”

The Supe raises his hand and points at one of the concrete pillars. You notice that hand is red. He has put his gloves back on.

The pillar he gestures at is aligned in a row with the one your collar is chained to, but more than a stone’s throw away. A steel chain encircles the base of it. Something that looks like a much smaller collar sits atop a coiled mound of stainless steel chain links.

“Or…” You can hear the smile in Homelander’s voice. “You can go over there and fasten that cuff around your ankle.”

You hear the shuffle of ropes being untied. Homelander steps back. 

Shane’s chair creaks as he rises from it. 

He walks towards the pillar. His steps have an oddly rhythmic quality. _It’s like he’s marching._ You realize. _My soldier...maybe in his head, he’s walking down a road back in Afghanistan that may be lined with IEDs, may be his last. But he walks it. Because he promised he would._

A fresh wave of tears stings your eyes. 

Shane drops to one knee and reaches for the padded steel cuff. Without hesitation, he closes it around his left ankle. The _click_ of the lock echoes through the silent warehouse. 

“Aww, isn’t that sweet?” Homelander chuckles. “But let’s give it a week and see how you feel _then._ Well, I’m off to save America.”

He turns to face you and crosses his arms over his chest. “Now, this is very important, puppy. Remember what my whip made you do? You're doing that from now on. If you forget, I'll have to give you more nice red stripes than my fucking cape. So don't test me.”

“Yes Sir,” You shiver. “Of course Sir.”

  
“Good.” Homelander nods once. “I'm leaving, but when I come back... _every_ time I come back. Say hello to your Master by kissing his right hand.”


	4. Chapter 4: He's a ghost, he's a god. He's a man, he's a guru

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You think back on happier times with Shane, and are faced with a decision.

****

**Chapter 4: He's a ghost, he's a god. He's a man, he's a guru**

The sun has long risen outside the warehouse by the time you awake the following day. The small glass panels of the windows are warped and distorted so that light enters, but all details are blurred. You see only the blue of the sky, and vague shapes that resemble the black pavement of a parking lot and the outlines of similar buildings. 

You hear the wind rattle the metal wall panels around you. A single tree scrapes its branches against the window when the late Spring breeze picks up.

You slept naked on your stomach, under a starched white sheet and dark blue blanket. The plug with the tail pokes up from your backside, pressing against the sheets. Now, the blankets are around you like a cocoon. You feel the springs of the mattress beneath your bare belly. 

Your body aches. The welts on your buttocks and thighs were the first thing you felt when you opened your eyes. Along with the stripe on your back, and where Homelander’s handprint left a bruise on the outside of your left thigh.

You slept with the plug still inserted into you. It was uncomfortable, but you were afraid to remove it. The short silicone tail would often snag on the sheets.

You rise to your bare feet and cast your eyes about your prison, now with the benefit of daylight at least. The walls are a mix of concrete and metal. They are painted green from floor to doorway, and faded yellow from doorway to high ceiling. The paint has flaked in many places. You hear the distant roar of traffic, but it is faint and you can’t even pinpoint the direction it’s coming from. A long row of thin concrete pillars support a metal catwalk above, and you and your husband are chained to two of them. You by your collar, him by his ankle cuff.

Your eyes fall on Shane. He is still wearing what he wore when you fell asleep together in your own bed back home. A simple white t-shirt and plaid boxers. His feet are bare as well, their soles caked with a thin layer of dust from the concrete floor of the warehouse. The dark hair on his arms and legs stands out against the light olive shade of his skin.

The doorways around you are half-open. You think that the one behind Shane leads to a foyer and then an exit. At least, it was the one Homelander used when he left.

The door behind you is open enough that you can see the white tile of a locker room. Whatever sorts of workers once used this building, you think, that was where they showered and changed.

Shane was given an identical mattress to sleep on. Before falling into exhaustion you and your husband had found that your respective chain “leashes” were almost long enough for you to touch...but not quite. Homelander had left you chained to pillars too far apart for husband and wife to embrace. Even your fingertips couldn’t reach Shane’s. You tried. Last night the two of you had pushed your mattresses a bit closer together before sleep could claim you separately. 

Now he is sitting cross-legged where he slept, and leaning forward. His hands are laced together. His tanned forearms rest against his bare legs. Shane’s deep, wide brown eyes are fixed on your face. He is studying you as though attempting to memorize every small expression you make; every detail of your eyes and lips. There are dark circles under his eyes. The five-o-clock shadow on his strong jaw is pronounced. His boxers are wrinkled and his white t-shirt has a layer of dried sweat at the armpits and collar.

There are a few scrapes on the bridge of his wide Italian nose, and his knuckles. They look like they were made hours ago. The blood has dried. You wonder if he pounded his fists or face against something hard. You could understand Shane trying to vent his frustrated rage on the building itself. While you were asleep, and while Homelander was away.

Your eyes meet. Shane whispers your name. 

You notice that he made up the sheets and blanket on his mattress. He never broke the habit of immediately making his bed upon waking. 

His voice is a dry rasp, hoarse with both overuse and thirst. You realize that your throat is parched as well. 

You glance about the space around you. The locker room behind you might have running water, you think, but it’s not within reach of your chain. Not much is, except for your own mattress and Homelander’s card table.

You walk over to the table. You can hear the chain attached to your collar dragging along the floor behind you. When you stand right beside it you see a few leather belts, the clear synthetic cane, a Taser, a policeman's electric baton, a wooden paddle with holes drilled into it, the jar of medicine from earlier, coils of white rope, two pairs of handcuffs, an enema bulb, a few items you don’t recognize, some burn cream, and lubricant. The card table itself is made of pale wood. Scratched, battered and flimsy.

You hadn’t noticed it before, but there was a case of clear water bottles beneath the table and a small box of nutrient bars on top of it. Both have simple white labels with the  _ Vought International  _ logo printed on them in black. It is odd packaging, you think. As though it were made for an institution or laboratory, not intended for sale.

The water is tepid when you drink it. You pick up a meal bar and tear open the flimsy wrapper. You take two of each for yourself, and slide two bars and water bottles across the dusty warehouse floor towards Shane. He gulps down the bottled water and splashes some on his face.

The meal bars are rectangular, dry, and almost completely tasteless. In both scent and color they remind you of a block of oats, processed with some kind of nutrient paste into the size and shape of a candy bar. Without the sweetness of course. 

Soon your belly is no longer growling at you. Your thirst is gone. Still, your body feels filthy and exhausted.

You lay upon your side again, with the blanket wrapped around you. Shane lays on his side as well. He faces you with his head propped up on one strong arm. He gives you a small smile. You two have taken a similar position countless times over the years, and had a heart-to-heart in bed. 

Your own bed, that is. Not chained up in a warehouse, on separate mattresses, too far apart to touch one another.

Shane lifts one olive-skinned hand and gestures as though to brush your hair out of your face. Hair that he can’t reach. Out of habit perhaps, or his mind casting back to safer days. The lines in his forehead soften. His pronounced brow relaxes a bit, thick black eyebrows no longer quite as close together.

“While you were asleep, I was thinking about the old diner. Where we met. I could almost smell the ketchup.”

You return his smile and shake your head. “I toiled in that kitchen as a sou chef for three years, and the only taste you remember is  _ ketchup?” _

He chuckles. “I mean, I remember the smell of the ketchup bottle. In that rack on the table. Next to the menu. Fifties-diner style. Because I sat at the table for hours. Either with you, or with my book.”

The anecdotes he repeats are familiar. You find your eyes drifting shut, not because you are tired but to focus on the mental images he conjures up for you. You feel the tension in your shoulders dissipate as he talks, one muscle fiber at a time.

Nine years ago. You had recently left college without getting a degree and Shane was still in the Army, stationed at a base nearby. His seven year term of service was coming to an end shortly and you had thought, upon first meeting him, that he was older than his years. But he was only more quiet, and patient, than any of the other soldiers who had passed through the restaurant. 

There had been many. When you ventured out of the kitchen you were accustomed to men from the base trying to chat you up, some more persistent than others. You had just ended a difficult relationship and you were not in a hurry to begin a new one. 

Besides, they were usually what your wizened old boss called, “on the prowl.” If you weren’t interested, well, they had a whole city to hunt in. Even local bars that were known to be frequented by ladies looking to meet a soldier. 

Shane had come to the diner regularly, and stayed. Even after he finished his meal. He would get many refills of coffee and sit at his table with a thick paperback, usually a classic like  _ Les Misérables. _

When you first spoke, it had been at the end of your shift and there was no one sitting in the diner except for him. Shane had said that this little restaurant was his first taste of peace and quiet in years. 

You could well imagine the constant din of his comrades. Noise and lack of privacy characterized life on the base a few miles away. For the first year of the relationship, you had assumed that was what he meant.

Right before he proposed to you, the two of you had lain almost like this together. Side-by-side in bed after making love.

_ It's not the noise of the men at the base. _ He had said.  _ It's the roadside bombs. In my head. Like an echo. And Danny...laying there with his leg blown off. _

_ The diner...it was quiet. Normal. Traditional. Like something out of the decade our parents were born in. Right after the second big war. Before the...unending...little ones started.  _

_ Sitting in there with my book helped. A little. But then when we talked, that helped more. Having you around made it go away. Sound of the IEDs I mean.  _

“And we didn't even get a honeymoon.” Shane finishes his anecdote about the early days of your marriage.

“More important things.” You shrug your naked shoulders. You shift about on the mattress and nestle into the cocoon of sheets and blankets around you. “It's expensive to move across the country. At least you were finally home to stay.”

The two of you lapse into silence for a time. Shane's voice is low and deep when he speaks again. “I love you. You're not some...acre of land  _ he _ salted. You're my fellow wounded soldier.”

He draws in a long, slow breath. The thick black hair at the top of his head is wet from the water bottle, haphazardly slicked forward by Shane’s own fingers. “I know how these types get inside of your head. You got to think of it like he’s just playing an instrument, you know? Like a guitar. Plucking your strings. Not your fault, whatever happens.”

Shane averts his eyes from you for the moment and gazes towards the window. “Look...the locked rooms that the enemy left behind. The people in them. I've seen a lot. The horrors of war.”

Shane pauses. His wide brown eyes shut. His face twists into an expression of constrained rage. “They sure as hell weren't supposed to come from  _ him, _ and they weren't supposed to happen to  _ you. _ But people come back from this. They survive. I believe you'll be one of them.”

His eyes open. Shane’s lips curl into a soft, ironic smile. “Now, let's work out the division of labor. You focus on what you'll do as soon as we get free. I think of how to escape. Just like they taught us. I mean, _ I'm _ the one who went to bootcamp.”

You give him a gentle laugh in spite of yourself. You can smell your own stale sweat. Where blood dried against your skin, it itches. 

“All right then. The first thing I’ll do when we get home is take a bath. With you.” 

You hear a  _ whoosh _ sound from the direction of the long glass window. A metal warehouse door creaks open. 

You feel as though the blood has frozen in your veins. You scramble to your feet and focus all of your attention towards the sound. The chain attached to your collar rattles as you move.

Homelander steps in through the doorway. You hear his gold-trimmed boots on the slick concrete floor. His flag cape swishes out behind him as he steps towards the both of you. You hear the crinkle of grocery bags and notice that he holds two of them. Both are featureless white plastic, tied shut around some kind of square bundle within. He tosses one of them at Shane and you see your husband catch it in the air. He sets the other one down next to you.

You fall to your knees on the mattress. As soon as Homelander is close enough you lean forwards to take his red-gloved right hand in both of your own, and kiss the back of it. 

Stiff, slick red leather encases each one of his fingers. You pepper them with kisses and work your way up his wrist, to where the gold thread begins. You make a show of adoring his whip hand. You hold it against your cheek and look up at him with an expression of pure worship. “Welcome home, Master.”

Homelander smiles. His thick blonde hair is combed back and slightly tousled from flying. He nods once. “That’s a good pup. Now go get clean for me.”

He reaches into the rectangular golden pouch at his belt. It is large enough for his cell phone, and perhaps a few credit cards. He withdraws a single stainless steel key. 

Homelander uses it on the steel padlock that attaches your collar to the chain. Chain and lock both fall to the hard concrete floor. The sound echoes in the warehouse. 

You are still collared, but there is no chain attached. He motions towards the locker room behind you, and then at the plastic bag he dropped near your knees.

You pick up the bag and dash off to the white-tiled locker room. Once there, you open it and study its contents. It has a few toiletries in it--toothpaste, a toothbrush, a hairbrush, and dog shampoo on top of a few starched white towels. 

Beneath the towels you find a bra and matching garter belt, with thigh-high stockings to clip it to. On top of these you see a pair of simple black heeled shoes. The bra you have been given to wear is patterned black and white, like the fur of a Dalmation. The ensemble is topped off by a pair of matching fabric dog ears, attached to the top of a headband. Wrapped up in the towel you find a pair of knee and elbow pads, of the sort you might wear while rollerblading.

It reminds you of a Halloween costume. Except there are no panties, nothing to cover you from waist to thighs. Your knees will be protected from the concrete when you kneel, you think. Or have to crawl on your elbows. But of course your intimate parts will be available to Homelander.

You turn on the nearest showerhead and scrub your hair and body raw. The distinctive smell of shampoo and body wash intended for an animal fills your senses, but at least you are under hot water and able to clean every trace of dried sweat and blood from your body. You use the cheap hair brush to comb knots out of your hair. Steam fills the air around you. You breathe it in deep.

You want to remain under the hot water until every inch of your pale skin turns red, but you don’t want to think about what will happen if you make Homelander wait too long. You towel yourself dry.

You step back out of the locker room. You have cleaned every inch of your skin and brushed your teeth and hair. You removed your tail plug to use the bathroom, washed it, and put it back in place. 

Your hair is up in a French braid, and you are in costume. You wear dog ears atop your head, a Dalmatian-patterned bra and garter belt, black stockings, and heels. Your knees and elbows are protected by black pads.

You look over at Shane. Your husband has changed out of his shirt and boxers. He, too, has been allowed to freshen up and shave. His black hair is wet and combed forward, towards his forehead. Homelander has given Shane clothes that remind you of a prisoner’s scrubs, but dark blue. Your husband is still chained to the pillar by his ankle cuff.

You step towards Homelander and fall to your knees, greeting him with doglike kisses on his right hand. He pats your head. You look up to see him casting a triumphant smirk in Shane’s direction. Your husband keeps his eyes lowered.

“Fits her even better than I thought it would.” The Supe snorts. “You’re the prisoner, she’s the puppy.” 

Homelander waves his hand in your direction, then at the mattress you slept upon. “On all fours, dog. I’ve come to a decision.”

You jump to comply. The toes of his red boots are against the mattress. You plant a wet kiss on each boot and get on your hands and knees in front of him, upon the rumpled sheets you slept between.

You expect him to lock your collar to the chain once more. Instead, he kneels down beside you and begins to run his fingertips over your skin. Homelander is at your right side now, and Shane off to your left.

Homelander strokes the swell of your hip, the curves of your neck, then your welted thighs. His fingers trace the folds between your legs, then toy with your tail plug, and then venture up your spine once more. He is teasing every inch of your body as he talks.

“You’re being a good girl, so I decided to give you a choice as well. You can walk away. Be a stray, if you will. Might have to hitchhike home.”

You hear him chuckle above you. His gloved hand squeezes the left cheek of your punished bottom hard. You yelp out loud.

“Of course I’ll have no use for your husband anymore, so I’ll just burn down the warehouse with him in it. But at least this will all be over for you. You’ll get out alive. And I haven’t even fucked you yet.”

You squeeze your eyes shut. Your heart pounds in your ears. By now, you think, even the thought of Homelander presenting you with a choice is terrifying. 

His gloved hands continue to toy with you. He draws a circle between your shoulder blades with his fingertip, then traces the line of your spine. He teases your pussy with a gloved finger before pulling back and reaching around to pinch your breast. He is keeping you off-balance.

“Or…” You can hear the glee in his voice. You look over your right shoulder to see his lips twist into a self-satisfied smile. “You can accept your place. You’re _ my  _ dog, and it’s going to stay that way for now. Until I’m finished. Tell me, how many red stripes do I have on  _ my  _ cape?”

The breath catches in your throat. Your voice trembles. “Seven. Seven, Sir.” 

You remember it from some promotional material. As leader of the Seven, it made sense. 

“Correct.” Homelander’s gloved right hand traces the long whip mark that stretches from your left shoulder to just above your right hip. “I already gave you one, so I will give you six more. Three today, the other three tomorrow. All facedown, on the floor where you belong. I will tie your legs to make it easier but your husband will hold your wrists while I punish you. I won’t make it easy by tying you both down. If he lets go, I start over.”

His gloved hand delves between your legs. He thrusts two fingers into you, hard. You squeal aloud and bury your face against the mattress. It drives your hips higher into the air.

You can feel your shoulders shaking. The weight of the fabric dog ears on the top of your head feels off-kilter, as though you have thrashed your head about and sent them leaning to one side.

“Then of course, I will finally mount my bitch like a Master should.” Homelander finishes. “Three stripes on your back right now, and I use you today. Three more stripes tomorrow before I take that plug out and claim you  _ there _ as well. After that...I have a few other things planned. It will take a week, no more. Then you both go home alive. Mine for a week and I’ll turn you loose.”

His right hand leaves its place buried in your core. He brings it up to your face and orders you to clean his glove with your tongue. You lick your own juices off of the stiff red leather. You taste like sweat and dog shampoo.

Homelander raises one eyebrow. When you have cleaned his hand he wraps those gloved fingers around your chin, making you meet his eyes. His ice-blue gaze bores into you.

The Supe rises to his feet and stands in front of you. His hands are on his hips, below his golden eagle belt. His chest is puffed out.

“So...what will it be, puppy? Go home now, alone? Or go home in a week together? After I put you both in your place.”

Your shoulders shake. Your voice trembles. After a few ragged breaths the words emerge from you at last. There is a feeling like fire in your chest. As though the breath is being crushed from you by an invisible fist.

“My Master will do as he likes with us. I am Master’s dog until he decides I am not.”

Homelander guides you to kneel in front of him, instead of remaining on all fours. You kiss his red-gloved palm, and then each fingertip. 

Finally, you take that hand and place it upon the steel collar that encircles your neck.

“But as long as I am a dog who gets to pull her leash towards someone she loves, instead of away...I will. Shane and I are bonded in ways that go beyond today, or tomorrow, or the day after. Or one week. If I live, I want it to be with him. If I die, with him.” 

A sob catches in your throat as you speak. You feel tears in your eyes. You hear Shane off to your left. He does not sound surprised at all, but his breathing has grown ragged.

You plant a reverent kiss on the bulge in Homelander’s dark blue tights. You begin to stroke his thighs and stomach with your hands. 

You look up at him with imploring eyes. He pets your hair, encouraging you to continue. His perfect teeth show as he smiles.

You draw in a deep breath. You grit your teeth for a moment but continue. Your voice and body are the picture of meek supplication. “Master is generous for granting us our freedom after a week of service to him. Please give me my beating and put your dog in her place, right now.”

Homelander walks over to the card table and takes the bullwhip from it. He steps back over to you. He holds the brown cowboy whip so close to your nose that you can smell the oiled leather.

You kiss every finger on his red whip hand.


	5. Chapter 5: They're whispering his name through this disappearing land

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You take the punishment you were promised, and then some.

****

**Chapter 5: They're whispering his name through this disappearing land**

You are facedown on the mattress. Your arms are extended all the way above your head.

Shane is kneeling on a pillow, his kneecaps at the edge of the sheets. He is holding your crossed wrists together and pressing them down, against the starched white cotton beneath you.

Your ankles are tied. The rope that binds them to a concrete pillar behind you is long and taut. You are able to tense and relax your muscles, but your body has been stretched out in such a way that it’s impossible to move to either side or thrash about. 

Your Dalmation-print bra has been removed. The dog ears on your head are still in place. You feel the fabric of them against the inside of your elbows. 

Homelander stands over you. You can hear his boots on the concrete. He is off to your right, and a pace or so back. The sound comes from behind your knees. 

“Prisoner. Look at me.” Homelander’s deep baritone echoes off the walls. You don’t raise your head but you can tell that the Supe is addressing Shane.

“I don’t need to hear your heartbeat to know that you hate me right now. Terrified, yeah, obviously. But ooh, if you could wring my neck…” He chuckles. 

You hear the soft tap of leather on concrete, telling you that the bullwhip has been uncoiled. “That’s why I have to do this, you know. You stepped out of line. This is how you learn not to. Both of you need to focus on how grateful you are that I’m just getting a little rough with you. I’ll still let you go.”

You hear Homelander draw in a deep breath. “Hear that, puppy? Be grateful. You have to thank me for every stripe, or I’m starting over.”

Before you can open your mouth to respond, the air is broken by a mighty _crack._

You scream aloud into the starched white fabric. You can feel your arms struggling against Shane’s sweaty palms. The pain registers itself as stars behind your eyes. The line of impact is not as long as the last one. It feels deeper. You can hear your own wail filling the dusty space of concrete and steel.

Yesterday’s lash stretched from your left shoulder to your right hip. This one is a few inches beneath the first, but parallel to it. Like the stripes of his flag cape, tilted instead of straight. 

Blood doesn’t spurt; it’s nowhere near deep enough. But you feel a warm trickle against your skin. 

“Master.” You gasp. You look over your right shoulder at the blonde Supe. “Thank you for your correction Sir.”

The golden eagle at his shoulder catches the light as he raises the whip. “Good dog.”

“Wait!” Shane’s voice sounds thick. His hands falter. “Please, just give her a second--”

You gasp aloud. He presses his weight against your wrists again. 

The next lash digs into your back not far below the last one. You hear it striking not only your back, but the mattress beneath you and the sheets upon it. 

He is lining his blows up almost perfectly, you think. A row of diagonal stripes. Some distant part of your mind imagines the Supe watching old black-and-white movies, of the sort where John Wayne carried a bullwhip at his belt and was always ready to use it. You imagine the Supe finding unwilling subjects to practice on. Until he could wield the leather with the same skill.

You scream your thanks again. Your whole body is shaking. 

“Last one for today, puppy. Prisoner, be careful. You don’t get to tell me what to do here.”

_Crack._ Homelander’s final strike hits. You thank him for his correction and burst into tears. You drive your face into the sheets beneath you, as though to burrow into the starched white fabric and disappear. 

You hear heavy breathing behind you. The rope binding your ankles is tugged loose by impossibly strong fingers. Homelander’s hands move with an almost desperate urgency, as though he has waited far too long. He pushes your knees underneath you so that your welted bottom is raised up for him. Your back is arched, your eyes still shut tight. 

Shane still pushes on your wrists with his sweat-slick palms. Your husband holding you down is the first physical contact the two of you have been allowed since you were taken from your home. 

Homelander’s bare fingers dig in where he caned your backside. He has taken his gloves off. His skin is hot against your own. All at once he is inside you and his cock is pumping in and out at a rapid, punishing pace. 

You can feel your own wetness. He varies the angle of his hips as he thrusts in and out, bottoming out each time. Pounding against your inner walls. You let out a long, wordless scream before you even realize it. His hands are everywhere on your body, stroking and pinching. 

Soon his fingertips are circling your clit. Every muscle spasms with your climax, a wave of intensity that you feel helpless to resist or even understand. You feel limp, wrung out, and he is still driving his hardness into you.

His pace grows a bit more gentle when you cry out his name. Soon you are repeating it almost with every thrust. “Homelander. Master. Thank you Sir.”

You can feel Shane’s hands shaking. You raise your head to look at your husband. His shoulders are slumped forward. His body is wracked with silent sobs.

“I’m sorry.” Your husband’s voice is quavering. “I’m sorry.”

Shane raises his head and you see that he’s apologizing not to you, but to Homelander. His posture is defeated, his head hanging low. Wet tears glisten on his cheeks in the afternoon sunlight. It is streaming in through the warped glass panels of the warehouse window.

Homelander gives a satisfied grunt and slams his hips against yours. “For? You know that’s not enough. When you first woke up here…” He thrusts into you, pulls back, and slams himself into your core again. “You were just sorry you got caught.” 

Through the hands pinning your wrists down, you can feel your husband’s entire body trembling. 

You know what it feels like to struggle for the right thing to say to placate Homelander. But Shane’s words sound like they come from deep within his chest. Each syllable shakes as though his soul itself is cracking.

“Sir. I’m sorry I planted the bug in your office. It was wrong. I disrespected you. I betrayed you. I’ll never step out of line again Sir. I’m so sorry.”

“Yeah, that’s it. Damn right you are.” Homelander’s pace speeds up and you hear a gutteral sound in the back of his throat. He slams into you one more time. You feel his body twitch and shiver against your own. 

He climaxes with a deep animal grunt. You hear his panting breath return to a more normal pace. You can feel him begin to soften inside you. 

“You’re beginning to get it.” Homelander pulls out and rises to his feet. You hear him adjusting his Supe suit back into place. “You did something that you have to pay for, of course. But I think it takes a good beating to put you people in the right frame of mind sometimes. We’re Super. You’re mud. This is _our_ world, _you_ just live in it. And only because we let you.”

The bottom half of your body collapses back into the mattress as though you are boneless. 

Shane’s hands are still on your crossed wrists but he isn’t applying any pressure. You can feel him trembling.

You hide your face against your bare arm and try to think of nothing. You hear boots on the concrete, and the familiar sound of metal chains. 

You lift your head. Homelander has padlocked the stainless steel chain to your collar once more, leashing you to the pillar nearby. But this time Shane’s ankle cuff is chained to the same one, instead of so far away that the two of you can’t touch hands. 

The Supe stands tall. The white jar of medicine with the black-printed label is in Homelander’s now-gloved palm, and he is offering it to Shane where he kneels. 

Shane’s sweaty palms release your arms. He reaches up and takes it with both hands.

“All right then.” You can hear the smile in Homelander’s voice. “I’m finished for now. You put that on her stripes this time.”

He points one red-gloved finger in Shane’s face. “Now, behave. I’m letting my prisoner take care of my dog while I’m away, but he keeps his pants on. You know what I mean. I’ll smell it if you disobey. She’s still mine for a week.”

“Yes, Sir.” You and Shane answer in unison.

“Good.” Homelander nods once and turns about. The red and white stripes of his cape furl out behind him. He looks enormous to you, like a mountain or a god. 

You hear the warehouse door creak as he exits. The window glass is too distorted for you to see anything outside with much clarity, but you see a streak of blue shooting upward. You hear the muted _whoosh_ of his departure. Homelander has leapt into the sky.

***

You don't know where his errands take him, and you never know when to expect him back. He returns to use you again in the evening. The Supe leaves you with no more stripes on your back but a few fresh cane welts on your bottom and thighs.

More marks for your husband to soothe. He makes you drink a lot of tepid water from the plastic bottles before you fall asleep. You eat more than one tasteless meal bar. All four of your stripes ache and throb. Stress and rough use have left you exhausted and you spend a great deal of time sleeping on your stomach.

Shane is able to lay beside you at least. He is careful not to touch your back but he keeps one hand on your shoulder or arm, or takes your hand in his. You lay together on rumpled, bloody sheets, smelling of antiseptic salve. It smears in Shane’s jet-black hair. At times, you lay your head on his shoulder and breathe in his familiar, masculine scent.

When you awake again the warehouse has gone dark. The long fluorescent lights that hang from chains high above your head have been turned off. 

The sheets are still warm where Shane lay beside you, but are now vacant. You can see little except for distant city lights out the long window of many warped glass panels. 

You hear Shane’s ankle chain dragging on the concrete. Then a gasp. 

All of your muscles tense for a moment. But it is a sound of desperate hope, not fear. Shane mutters something under his breath, his eyes fixed on the window.

“D-E...BILLY...B-C-N-U.” He repeats the strange phrase over and over again. His voice rises each time. Laughter bursts forth from your husband’s lips. The sound echoes off the dark warehouse walls.

From where you lay, you can’t see what he is focused on. You squint and blink the sleep from your eyes. 

Shane dashes to your side. You feel his hand on your right shoulder, shaking you the rest of the way to wakefulness. 

“Honey!” He puts his lips close to your ear. You can feel the warmth of his skin against yours. He moves to enfold you in an embrace but then stops, mindful of where you were whipped. “Morse code. It’s morse, with a light. We both learned it when we served. DE, BCNU, that’s shorthand. _This is Billy. Be seeing you!”_

He kisses your forehead, then your temple and cheek. “This is Billy! Be seeing you!”

You knit your brow, trying to put the puzzle pieces together. “Wait, what? Billy...”

“He gave it to me! The journalist. British guy, former SAS. I thought he just gave me the bug for Homelander’s office and then fucked off when the Supe spotted it. Well, I don’t know how Billy found us but...he’s telling me he did. Be seeing you. He’s saying hold on. Help is coming.”

The salt trails of many tears have dried on your face. You feel them as you smile. Hope sparks in your chest. 

You kiss Shane’s lips, and hold tight to his hands.


End file.
